


change our way of caring

by 24601lesbians



Series: under pressure [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/F, M/M, Patrick makes friends, and he doesnt want to share cookie night, gee is still a bad driver, happy lesbians yay, jealous pete, pete isnt expressing his feelings very well, transgirl gerard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24601lesbians/pseuds/24601lesbians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gee closes her eyes in a God-give-me-patience kind of way. “Pete, you motherfucker, I know you and I appreciate you but you can’t read Patrick for shit, can you?”<br/>Pete opens his mouth, determined.<br/>“It was rhetorical; you’ll only get tired if you keep doing that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	change our way of caring

So far, he’s avoided attention at the bar. 

"Hey, there, can I buy you a drink?"

Maybe he spoke too soon. "I'm taken," Patrick says mildly.

"I want your number at least. Come on."

"No."

"Meet me in the bathroom, gorgeous?"

He flips the bird, black nail polish glinting. " _No_."

"You'd be begging in a heartbeat. You're the worst pansy-ass I've ever seen," he shoots back.

Patrick's hand is curled into a fist that hits the guy square in the jaw, sends him stutter-stepping into a big blond dude. He's way tall, and totally _trips the man who was hitting on Patrick_.

"Sorry." They watch the second bartender haul him away.

"He needed it," Blond Guy says disdainfully. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

He offers a hand. "I'm Bob."

"Patrick."

They shake hands and make small talk (very small) until someone with fucking huge hair pops up and nudges Bob. "Frank's leaving. I can give you a ride if you don't go with him, but he's closer to your place than I am. Hi," he says, noticing Patrick.

"Hi," Patrick says. 

“This is Ray.” Bob rolls his eyes at the lack of Ray’s effort in introducing himself, even though Patrick sees it’s because he’s throwing back the rest of Bob’s drink. Bob sighs, thinks through his options, and stands. “I’ll be a minute. I left my hoodie in Frank’s car, and if I don’t find it now it’ll be lost to dog hair forever. But I’ll be back.”

Ray is a talker. Soon enough, Patrick is discussing not his first guitars, but the cutest dog his neighbor had when he was little, and how awful he is at making his own chapstick. Bob comes back with a sweatshirt that honestly smells kind of gross, but Patrick gets over it when they talk about a show they went to. And really, he thinks it sounds awesome. That kind of energy from so many people would be intense.

By the time Patrick says, “No, really, I have to go home--like an hour ago,” he’s laughed at stories of Frank that Bob tells with a lot of head-shaking and he really, really has to pee. He might be speeding on his way home. Two miles an hour over the limit counts. He’s a rebel now. Everything his mother feared. 

There’s a constant music loop coming from one of the rooms, and he’s curious when he pushes the door open and first hears it. He might be fuzzy with tiredness, but he knows it’s no CD either he or Pete owns. He spots Pete sprawled on the floor in a mess of blankets with light from the movie menu playing over his face and shoulder.

He feels his face heat up, but in a happier way than usual. He’s pleased Pete tried to wait up for him. Patrick gives him a little more time to sleep while he kicks off the flats, swaps the loose-layered skirt for sweatpants and his t-shirt for one that’s older with an indistinguishable logo on it. He takes off the subtle layers of makeup next, then pushes a hand through his hair on the way back to Pete. He’s gotten better at peeling sleeping Pete off of various surfaces and hauling him to his bed.

 

Sunday morning is slow, like moving through mud. Mud that’s got cartoons and the good kind of tiredness. “How was yesterday?” Pete asks, mid-yawn. It sounds more like “oh wssday,” but Patrick is a skilled translator.

Patrick beams. “There were a couple of guys who saw me fend off a less-than-nice guy. But long story short, Bob does lessons for drums and Ray knows a lot about skin care because he works in that big Macy’s, the one an hour away? It’s where Lindsey got Gee that blue leather jacket. Anyway, he sells face and hand stuff to desperate teenagers. And he does the perfume counter, sometimes.”

It kind of sounds like Patrick is somewhere between “impressed” and “utterly dazzled” by the way he’s talking. Pete doesn’t have a system for telling what Patrick’s into at this point, but  _ shit _ does it sound like he likes one. Or both. No, one. He snorts at that. Why  _ can’t _ it be no one? But he’s no closer to figuring out which one is his type. So far, Bob and Ray seem to have an ear for music, short names, and height in common. Pete sure as fuck can’t compete in the height department.

The universe is a rude dude.

x

It’s been almost three days for him to realize there’s a new smell in their place, and his stomach drops before he wanders into Patrick’s room (it tricks his brain into thinking he’ll ask Patrick about it later, but deep down, he knows he really won’t be doing that at _all_ ) and sees a little teal bottle. So it’s just Patrick’s perfume. A new thing. There’s a pretty fucking high chance he got it from that Ray guy, but he can deal with that.

He can deal with the part where Patrick uses perfume now. The simple fact is fine. It just smells so fucking good. He wants to not sniff, sniff is the wrong word, but  _ smell _ Patrick. Sweet, oblivious Patrick. He accepts that it’s totally a fixture in the whole “Patrick is really cute” thing. So that’s there. And oh christ, of  _course he has a Patrick is hot thing why the fuck can he not leave well enough alone_. 

So, genius that he is, he distances himself.

 

Distance works wonders until Patrick knocks on his bedroom door the next night while Pete is reading Fahrenheit 451 again.

“Did I say something rude to piss you off?”

“What? No.”

Another possibility strikes him. Unpleasantly. “This isn’t about my makeup, is it?”

“No.” He looks disgusted at the thought. _Good_ , Patrick thinks.

"Pete. You are a grown-ass man."

Pete is the kind of grown-ass man that tends to be very obvious in his refusal to be a part of the conversation Patrick is trying so hard to have with him.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” he says, mouth set in a line and eyes focused on Patrick’s feet.

He’s tense all day, doesn’t know what he could have done wrong besides forget to put fabric softener in the load of purple and black he ran through the washer, but that was definitely after Pete stopped talking. He won’t even look at Patrick.

“ _Pete_ ,” Patrick says a couple mornings later. “I’m not making pancakes if you won’t fucking talk to me.” This is his supreme threat, and it might be fighting dirty, but he wins this way.

He watches in disbelief as Pete gets out the toaster. Oh,  _ fuck _ no. No one uses the toaster, ever. He can see the dust on it right now, in the light from the fridge while Pete gets the bagels out.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls.

He doesn’t acknowledge Patrick at all, just plugs it in and drops half a bagel in it.

Patrick doesn’t know why he fucking wanted his company today, anyway.

x

Gee is talking and smiling at the two guys waiting outside for the door to open and cookie night to commence. Pete has Facebook stalked both of them, so he knew what they looked like already, but this. This is too far.

He sits and takes it for an hour, superglued to Gee’s side all the while. She alternates between pitying glances and awkwardly patting his back, probably trying to be soothing.

“I can’t be here,” he says abruptly, only regretting it when he notices Patrick tensing with a hurt look. He drops the cookie he’s been holding with zero intention of eating.

After the door closes, Ray cautiously asks, “Are you doing alright?”

Gee bites her lip. “You should talk to him.”

“I tried; he  _ wouldn’t _ and it sucks,” Patrick says.

She sets her jaw. “I’ll talk to him.” She snatches Patrick’s phone and gets her own keys. She leaves with a casual “Later, guys,” like this shit is normal.

Patrick scuffs his toe awkwardly against the covering that hides the gap between carpet and tile.

“Come on, I’m driving.” Pete gives up and gets in the car, contemplating falling asleep so he can take Gee by surprise when he--“And I turned on the child locks so you can’t get out and not listen,” she snaps.

“Fuck you,” Pete says. He’s already exhausted by the conversation.

“What’s your deal?”

“What deal?”

“The Patrick deal.”

“I haven’t paid attention to that deal lately. Other stuff has come up.”

“Haven’t been paying attention to the time he tries to spend specifically with you, either, huh?”

“Gee, I know you mean well, but listen to me  _ once_.” 

Gee closes her eyes in a God-give-me-patience kind of way. “Pete, you motherfucker, I know you and I appreciate you but you can’t read Patrick for shit, can you?”

Pete opens his mouth, determined.

“It was rhetorical; you’ll only get tired if you keep doing that.” Gee flaps a hand at him like _it’s just you, though_. “Did you know he calls me when he can’t sleep because he’s worried about people? I’ve had three calls in two days, and one of them was two hours, but they were all about you.”

He’s immediately pervaded by guilt, but she’s still going as they pull into an appliance store’s parking lot. “He’s not bitching about your behavior toward him, mostly, he’s bitching about you not calling him pretty when he shows you new things or not initiating more of your hugs or, my personal favorite, because it kind of sums him up: forgiving you for cracking one of his favorite coffee mugs because you’re ‘fucking adorable’ and ‘I can’t say no to him.’” After pulling out the air quotes with the hand that’s not resting on the wheel, she inspects her nails, scowling at a tiny chip in the the bright glitter. “Get the picture?”

Bob and Ray are gone when Gee brings Pete back and opens his car door. Patrick’s locked himself in his room, which means Pete feels like a bigger asshole because he can’t apologize now. Sleeping feels like work, but he’s not going to know what movies he feels like watching anyway. He mentally salutes Tylenol PM, which he took with one of the leftover cookies (that’s fucked up in and of itself; they always eat every cookie they have) on the way to his room.

x

Patrick remembers curling up tightly in his bed last night, guitar out in case he wanted to do something with his hands even if he knew he was too uncertain and pissed off to play. And it’s awkward today, but Pete is saying little things now and then. That has to count for something.

By lunch, something is making the air feel thicker. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s definitely weighing him down. He tries reading for a while, then gives up and switches to listening to music. His concentration isn’t any better when he reaches for his guitar, so he just kind of stares at it while it sits in his lap. Is he hungry? He doesn’t know. Eating is more fun than cleaning up all the stuff he just heaped on his bed, so he shrugs at it on his way out of his room.

Patrick walks past the futon to get a granola bar (he’s about to try reading again) but Pete grabs his hand, letting go in a way that combines dropping it quickly with lingering. “I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“I forgive you.”

Slow, lazy making out is Patrick’s favorite fucking thing. Pete picks that up once he’s pulled Patrick down, half in his lap, and it honestly leaves him kind of extra breathless. Soft kissing that’s not about getting into somebody’s pants, just being able to breathe each other in and get too far into each other’s personal space. He could do this all day, until his lipstick is completely gone and Pete’s shirt is rucked up and they’re in bed for the night. This is perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> first order of business: thank you for the comments and kudos because i am a kind of vain writer and i LIVE FOR THAT SHIT  
> second order of business: buckle up bc im doing a space fic


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